Still Hands and Paper Skin
by littledarkangelhippie
Summary: Her eyes always said more than her lips ever did. (Eren x Mikasa)


**A.N.****: So, uh. I got another request regarding Mikasa and Eren, and...**

**I'm sorry. Again. For everything. In advance.**

**Disclaimer****: I do not own ****_Shingeki no Kyojin_.**

When he was in grade school, they used to always tell him that he was blind. He never understood it, was certain he could see just fine, passing a hand over his eyes to check. He would nearly shout the color of the sky or the clouds in the faces of the person who dared stand there and lie to him. A fearful or knowing look would always cross their faces when he did.

He understands what they meant now.

They sky is blue, the clouds are white, the light was green, the world spun gray, the asphalt is black—no, red; her hair is black—red—___drenched red_—no, black—

He should've seen it coming, he was so sure he wasn't blind, how could he have not known, it was right there—___why is there so much red?—_

One.

He met her in kindergarten, on the very first day of school. A little girl with sleek black hair and paper white skin and dark, dark eyes. She was quiet and reserved and kept all her thoughts to herself. When she spoke, she was tranquil and subdued and was better at explaining concepts than emotions; better at listening than actually talking. Her eyes said more than her lips ever did, and that suited him just fine.

Two.

She always listened. When he needed to talk, she offered an ear, patiently letting him go on and on about his parents and school work and bullies and girls and—___why can't all girls be like you? You're so understanding__—_and she nodded wordlessly and hummed very softly when he glanced at her imploringly. She never once spoke, all still hands and furrowed brows, dark eyes almost warm, steady, unmoving, locked on his.

Three.

She was the only person he could stand to cry around, perhaps because she never said anything or because he knew she wouldn't tell a soul; he couldn't tell. He didn't cry often, but when he did, she was most usually there—all gentle touches and faint smiles and quiet compassion. He could bury his face in the curve of her neck or the softness of her chest or the comfortable surface of her lap and drown her in the overlap of his emotions, what didn't fit in that little proverbial bottle he kept inside of him. And she accepted it graciously, whispering his name tenderly, fingers petting softly over his hair—

Three.

One. Two. Three.

___Breathe_.

_Why aren't you breathing?_

They were both fifteen, her hand was smaller in his than he'd thought it would be and he had to wonder when he'd ever actually stopped to think about it. Her fingers were tepid and still curved against his, as steady as her gaze, moving over his face in slow waves, searching for something. When he leaned over, she met the movement midway to press their lips together firmly. He could taste the flavor of her gloss on his skin and later tried to find it in class when they part, had to sigh despondently when he couldn't.

One, two, three.

___Breathe—please, just breathe_.

A friend of theirs was giving birth today, and she wanted to be the first to congratulate her. He was driving as fast as he could, her palm warm against his, weaving through cars easily. She whispered something about houses and children and ___you and I might have to settle down soon_. And he had to laugh, her dark, dark eyes warm and a faint smile curving her lips.

One—two—___three__—_

___Why aren't you breathing?_

When he locks his mouth over hers, she is unmoving, unresponsive. When his hands shove down on her chest—___one, two, three__—_her body jerks with them.

And he is terrified, heart pounding hard and fast in his chest, breaths leaving quick, eyes watering, fingers trembling—___move, damn it__—_

A pair of hands cut off his thoughts, attempting to peel him from her body, lying limp—___why are you so limp?__—_beneath him. His hands had tried to tear her coat open, buttons scattered nearby, to reach the part of her chest he can lay his ear over to hear her heart, surely beating strong and even just like it always has. But the pair of hands have gotten purchase on his shoulders, and more hands are grasping at his arms, his clothes, tugging him ___away_. He can only struggle for so long before he realizes he isn't trying very much at all.

The sunlight is bright outside, blinding his eyes for a few long seconds, and the world is so unbelievably loud he wants to clap his hands over his ears and shut it all out again. For a moment he misses the haven of being near her, but when he turns back to slither up to her side he has to catch himself against the person nearest him—some tall woman with worried eyes and wild hair and a quick, harsh voice asking quick, harsh questions.

The metal had all but been twisted right into itself, the door inverted and the glass smashed and wheels facing near up toward the sky. He has to wonder how he survived at all, and winces when he tries to take a step forward. He broke something somewhere, he knows it, but she's still in there and he won't go anywhere without her, has to shake the woman off of him when she tries to guide him toward the gurneys being wheeled close.

"Please," the woman protests, hands clamping down on his shoulders and turning him back toward her, wide brown eyes tight with worry and brows furrowed deep. "Please, you have to get medical attention immediately. It hit from your side—"

"She's still in there," he mumbles, turning away, gritting his teeth when she doesn't let up on her hold. He rears on her, eyes ablaze and fists clenched. "She's still in there!"

The woman, pulling her face into one of cold understanding, glances toward the wreckage and allows him to look. Two tall men are attempting to lift the car enough to let more medics underneath, to reach the remaining survivors left within. A nurse wriggles in through the driver's window, the glass lining it presumably the reason why lines of red stroked his forearms now. She only gets so far before she asks for assistance. Working together, the tall men and a few more witnesses lift the car a little more and work around to the other side.

It is then that he realizes he is far too late—was always far too late.

"Her legs are crushed," the woman observes along with him. The face he makes prompts her to say, "We could save her life, but she will probably never walk again."

The gurneys were being rushed in now, paramedics shoving people aside to reach the emergency at the center of the crowds gathering now. They carefully pull her from the wreck and lay her out across the gurney, rushing her back to the ambulance. The woman pushes him toward the other gurney, and he has to flinch because he most _definitely _broke something and the pain spikes up his spine terribly.

The woman climbs into the ambulance behind him, tugging off her coat and reaching past the paramedic to grab some gloves. They do not object to it, obeying her curt orders without a single protest; she's a doctor, he realizes. When she makes a move toward him, he shakes his head vehemently. "Her first," he grits out, folding his arms tight over his stomach and hoping she cannot see the effort it's taking him to stay conscious; something keeps trying to drag him into black, popping across his vision and muting his senses entirely.

Her eyes tighten anyway, but she does what he says, moving around him to the gurney beside him. The paramedics are pulling the doors shut, but not before a man slips in from between them. They begin to protest, stop when they take a good look at him. He can't tell who it is, lets himself assume it's someone important. "Check him," the doctor says, and decides he must be a doctor as well.

The man stands over him, narrow eyes glaring down into his. A pair of calloused hands press almost painfully into his jaw, the side of his throat. "Kid," he says, "stay with me here." A small slap across his face makes him gasp and jerk away from the man; the intended reaction. Those hands move down to his sides, methodically going about a routine he must've repeated dozens and dozens of times for all the attention he seems to be giving it. "Three broken ribs," the man drones, plucking up his shirt to check the skin beneath briefly. "A large bruise, but no bleeding." He moves his arm just a little, and he hisses, turning his face away. "Shoulder popped out of the socket, but that can be fixed easily."

He has to sigh in relief, around the haze beginning to envelope his mind.

"There's no danger here," the man continues to say, whether to him or the doctor, he cannot tell. "You can go to sleep. You'll be fine."

He doesn't want to. He reaches out across the short space between them to grasp her hand, hanging in that space, laces his fingers through hers. They are cool and still curled against his, and they do not squeeze back when he presses the tips of fingers against her skin. The doctor is checking her pulse, her wounds, the area between the beginning of her legs and the rest of her, and a frown carves her face, deep brown eyes intent as they meet the man's across the two of them.

Something in her gaze tells him before he realizes it.

"Oh," the man says, and his tone does not betray what he is thinking or feeling; if he even is at all. He turns to the paramedics and nods curtly. The ambulance comes alive, sirens blaring outside, wheels tearing across the street. "Go to sleep, kid," the man says again, never looking down at him.

He shakes his head angrily, pushing himself up to sit. A calloused hand grasps his arm but he shakes it off, turning toward her. Her head is turned away from his, sleek black hair covering her face. His fingers press against her paper skin, attempting to find some warmth again. Her lips are parted, as if she has something to say, but he knows her eyes will always say so much more.

They're closed.

The doctor pushes his hands away when he tries to turn her toward him. "Please," she nearly sobs, "___please_, just leave her be—" He grabs the doctor's arm almost viciously, yanking her toward him.

"You don't understand," he growls, "I ___need_her."

The man pries his fingers from the doctor's arm, and she's crying as if she ___does_understand—ivory teeth grit and wide brown eyes ___burning_with sadness, tears welling up within them but not quite spilling just yet. "I'm sorry," she chokes out. "I'm so sorry."

And he's crying. And he's never cried in front of anyone but her, and he can't bury his face in her neck or her chest or her lap—she won't pet his hair with those fingers anymore or whisper his name tenderly or kiss him softly; her taste will never linger on his skin again—

"She tried to protect you," the man states. "There are wounds on her back and her spine is broken; you can tell just looking at her. You must've meant something to her."

He wants to scream, biting down hard enough on his other fist to bleed, muffled noises cutting their way out of him.

"Sedate him," the man's cold voice orders, and a needle is produced from thin air, pushing into his arm—blackness soaks right through his mind, and this time he lets it, hand clasped tight with hers.

He wonders why he can't tell the difference, her hands were always so still, but now they're cold and not warm and he wishes they were warm.

"I'm sorry," the doctor whispers a final time, and he realizes her own fingers are tangled with the man's between them.

He wonders if they're warm. He wonders if they're trembling.

~~...~~X~~...~~

**A.N.****: I'm not sure why people like me writing sad stories. But...uh, it can't be worse than the last one, right?**

**Ha. Haha. **

**I'm sorry.**

**Please review... Or, you know...don't...if you don't want to...**


End file.
